


Matchmaker

by a_nonny_moose



Category: Markiplier Egos
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 06:19:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13969149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: This is dedicated to @snarkyowl on tumblr for their birthday, and inspired by an anonymous ask. Some fluff.





	Matchmaker

“Doc, I’m kind of in the middle of something—”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Bim took a step back, the sheet he was hoisting up nearly crashing down on top of him. “Wh—what?”

Dr. Iplier looked around the studio, then the hallway, before locking the door. “Listen,” he hissed, whirling Bim around by the shoulders. “I don’t know how to do this whole romance thing, okay? I need your incubus ass on my side for this.”

Bim blinked, a moment of clarity. “Is this about Host?”

A nod, and Dr. Iplier looked as if he was far away again. It had happened often enough in the past few weeks that he’d managed to remove someone’s right kidney instead of their left, and whatever ‘love bug’ he had wasn’t responding to treatment. “Short of performing an autopneumonectomy, what do I _do_ , Bim?”

Bim half-laughed, setting down his work carefully. “I don’t think this is something I can do for you, Doc.”

Dr. Iplier sighed, collapsing into a chair. “Look,” he muttered, head in his hands, fingers in his hair. “I really like him, and that’s irrational.”

“Correct,” Bim said, sitting across from him. 

“But,” Dr. Iplier said, pointing at Bim without looking up, “you can fix that, right?”

“How am I supposed to—”

Dr. Iplier looked up, mad desperation, and Bim suddenly wished that he hadn’t been sitting so close. “Incubus, succubus, concubus, _whatever_. Take these emotions, I don’t want them.”

“You want me to kiss the emotions out of you, like some emotion-sucking vampire?”

“I mean—” Dr. Iplier waved his hands, guesturing to himself, “—look at me, Bim, I’m a wreck.” Head in his hands again, voice muffled, “I can’t go on like this.”

“Or you could talk to Host,” Bim said, sitting back.

“That’s stupid.”

“Doc—”

“I can’t talk to him, because then he’ll _know_ , and he’s not supposed to _know_ , okay?”

“Why not?” Bim looked as if he was in his element, knees crossed. All he needed was to start taking notes. 

“Figments aren’t supposed to fall in love, Bim.”

“Sorry, what was that?” Bim leaned forward again, a hand cupped around his ear, and Dr. Iplier missed the knowing smirk.

“And especially not with another figment from the same person, even if he does happen to be really handsome, and smart, and understand reality a little better than the rest of you _morons_ —”

“Back up,” Bim laughed, stopping Dr. Iplier’s ranting and watering eyes. “What did you say about, uh, falling?”

“In love?”

“With?”

“The Host?”

“Hmm.” Bim crossed his arms, fighting back a smile. “I think I might have the cure, Doc.”

“What?” Dr. Iplier was on his feet, leaning over Bim, in an instant. “What is it?”

“But first,” Bim grinned, getting up, walking back to the stage, “I’ll need you to confirm that for me.”

“That I’m… in love?” Dr. Iplier pushed his hair back, a warbling laugh. “I—I think I am, Bim.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I think I’m in love with the Host.”

“Once more,” Bim called, pulling down the sheet he’d rigged up.

Dr. Iplier closed his eyes, reveling at the way his voice echoed back at him, the freedom of finally admitting it. “I’m in love with Host!”

“Told you so,” Bim giggled, and Dr. Iplier’s eyes shot open to the sound of a very familiar stutter.

“Bim, the Host appreciates your help, but—”

“Host?”

“Ah. Doctor.”

Dr. Iplier wasn’t sure where Bim had disappeared to, but the curtain had fallen and the Host stood in front of him, a bright red blush working its way up his neck. The Doctor was fairly certain that the soft music and the purple wash of light was Bim’s doing, and also that Bim would be found dead shortly thereafter. 

Just now, though, the Host’s shaking hands and mumbled explanations were making his heart pound in his chest. 

“Host. Um, I—”

“The Host understands.”

“Don’t—” Dr. Iplier stopped him, shaking his head. “Don’t do that.”

“What does the doctor not wish—”

“That. Talking in the third-person, like I’m—like _we’re_ —just characters, or something.”

“It’s a habit,” the Host whispered, apology going unsaid in their familiarity. 

“So…” This was ridiculous. He felt like a high schooler, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes downcast. 

The Host took a deep breath, words, rehearsed, spilling out. “I understand if you don’t want to pursue a relationship, Doctor, but Bim and I also have arranged this so I may make my feelings clear. In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

Dr. Iplier took the Host’s hands, pausing. “You… love… _me_?”

The Host’s face went red, and he started to pull away. “It does not mean anything if the doctor—if you—do not want it to mean anything.”

“Stop quoting Jane Austen and listen to me,” Dr. Iplier said, fighting a laugh, fighting affection spilling over in his chest. Suddenly, the warmth he felt had nothing to do with the stage lights. 

The Host fell silent, fingers curling around Dr. Iplier’s. Both hands worn from work, from a shared past of too, too much. 

“I do,” Dr. Iplier whispered, throat tight. “Want to try… this. Us.”

The Host pulled himself closer, into Dr. Iplier’s chest, close enough to feel his heart. “I would like that,” he said, simply. 

Dr. Iplier moved his arms to encircle the Host, a gentle hug with his face in the Host’s hair. “I think I love you, Host.”

The Host stifled a smile against Dr. Iplier’s shoulder. “I believe I love you too.”

* * *

They jumped apart as a burst of applause scattered across the room, house lights turning on. Bim, somewhere above them in the rafters, whooped, and the figments making up an audience clapped lazily, some laughing, some near tears. 

“Well, finally,” Dark growled, straightening his suit. “I believe I have the winning bet, then?”

“Three months, five days, and fourteen hours,” Oliver muttered, counting out coins. “Here you are, Dark.”

Google_G half-pouted, tapping his foot. “I had them at four days, Oliver.”

“It doesn’t count,” Bim laughed, appearing back on the floor in a puff of purple smoke. Wilford clapped him on the back, chuckling, and all of them gave Dr. Iplier and the Host another round of applause. 

“Gee, thanks, Bim,” Dr. Iplier called, one hand still tight around the Host’s.

“Consider me your matchmaker,” Bim winked, smiling wide. “Good luck, you two.”


End file.
